rue  i^%ic^j^  "Poe^Ms  of 


OTHER  BOOKS  BY 
CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 


Sea  and  Bay 

'The  ^een  of  Orplede 

Selected  Poems  of  Gustaf  Froding  {Translated) 

Anthology  of  Swedish  Lyrics  (Translated) 


THE  LYRICAL  POEMS  OF  HUGO 

VON  HOFMANNSTHAL 

Translated  from  the  Qerman  '>ppith  an  Introduction 
by  Qharles  Wharton  Stork^ 


NEW  HAVEN  •  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON  •  HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS  •  MDCCCCXVIII 


Copyright,   191 8,    by 
Tale   University  T'ress 

First  publishedy  <iApril,    191 8 


LOAN  STACK 


fr 

To  ^My  Friend 
ERIC  R.  D.  MACLAGAN  ^ ^1 

Who  Introduced  cJ^<?  to  the  Poetry  of  7  *7  "^ 

Hofmannsthal  ^  «d  C 


'Preface  and  Acknowledgments 

The  present  volume  of  translations  comprises  all  the 
contents  of  Hofmannsthal's  Die  Gesammelte  Gedichte, 
Insel  Verlag,  Leipsic,  1907  (in  my  edition),  with  the 
exception  of  Der  Tod  des  Tizian,  a  play.  This  play, 
with  Tor  und  Tod,  has  been  translated  for  The  German 
Classics,  vol.  XVII,  by  Mr.  John  Heard,  Jr.,  who  has 
also  done  the  prologue  on  the  death  of  Bocklin  here  in- 
cluded. Another  version  of  Tor  und  Tod  by  Elisabeth 
Walter  has  appeared  with  The  Gorham  Press.  Die 
Hochzeit  der  Sobeide,  a  longer  play,  has  been  done  for 
the  Classics,  vol.  XX,  by  Professor  Bayard  Quincy 
Morgan.  Hofmannsthal's  most  famous  play,  Elektra, 
translated  by  Arthur  Symons,  has  been  brought  out  by 
Brentano. 

Of  the  poems  here  included,  the  Ballade  of  the  Out- 
luard  Life  has  been  translated  by  Margarete  Miinsterberg 
in  her  Harvest  of  German  Verse,  Appleton.  In  German 
Lyrists  of  To-day  by  Daisy  Broicher,  Elkin  Mathews, 
London,  appear  Early  Spring,  Thy  Face  and  The  T<wo. 
An  article  by  Elisabeth  Walter,  entitled  Hugo  von  Hof- 
mannsthal,  an  Exponent  of  Modern  Lyricism,  in  The 
Colonnade  magazine  for  December,  1916,  New  York,  con- 
tains again  the  Ballade  of  the  Outivard  Life  and  The 
Two  with  the  third  of  the  Three  Little  Songs  and  a  num- 
ber of  fragments. 

Of  my  own  translations  Of  Mutability,  Travel  Song 
and  Interdependence  appeared  in  The  German  Classics, 
vol.  XVII,  and  are  here  republished  by  the  courtesy  of 
the  proprietors,  the  German  Publication  Society.  The 
Introduction  has  been  greatly  expanded  from  an  article 
in  the  New  York  Nation  which  contained  translations  of 
The  Tvno,  A  Dream  of  the  Higher  Magic  and  the  third 
of  the  Three  Little  Songs.  They  are  reproduced  here  by 
the  courtesy  of  the  proprietors  of  The  Nation.     Several 

vii 


i/ 


other  poems,  accepted  by  Poet  Lore,  are  included  by  the 
kind  permission  of  the  publishers.  The  entire  volume  is 
brought  out  by  the  kind  permission  of  Herr  von  Hof- 
mannsthal  through  his  publishers,  the  Insel  Verlag, 
Leipsic. 

^3rhese  translations  aim  at  being  as  true  to  the  spirit, 
more  particularly  the  mood,  of  the  originals  as  possible. 
They  are  fairly  literal,  the  changes  being  mainly  in  the 
order  of  words  in  a  phrase.  Very  occasionally  whole 
lines  have  been  transposed.  The  metres  and  rhyme- 
schemes  are,  with  slight  exceptions,  as  nearly  identical  as 
possible.  As  Hofmannsthal's  poetry  is  so  notably  com- 
pressed and  full  of  meaning,  it  is  hoped  that  these  trans- 
lations, together  with  the  Tntroduction,  may  enable  some 
of  those  who  already  know  him  in  the  original  to  see 
even  more  in  his  work  than  they  have  already  done. 

CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

"Birdwood,"  Philadelphia. 


vm 


Co:NjeHJs 

Introduction: 

Hofmannsthal  as  a  Lyric  Poet          ...  1 

Purely  Lyrical  Pieces: 

Early  Spring 23 

A  Vision 25 

Travel  Song 27 

The  Two 28 

Life-Song 29 

''Thy  Face  ..." 31 

World-Secret 32 

Of  the  Outward  Life 33 

Of  Mutability 34 

Death 35 

''Such  Stuff  as  Dreams" 36 

Interdependence 37 

A  Dream  of  the  Higher  Magic       ...  38 

Three  Little  Songs 40 

Figures: 

The  Young  Man  in  the  Landscape        .        .  45 

The  Ship's  Cook,  a  Captive,  Sings:       .       .  46 

An  Old  Man's  Longing  for  Summer     .        .  47 

Lines  to  a  Little  Child 49 

The  Emperor  of  China  Speaks :       ...  50 

Grandmother  and  Grandson     ....  52 

Society -54 

ix 


Prologues  and  J ddresses-of- Mourning: 

Prologue  to  the  Book  "Anatol"      ...  59 

For  a  Similar  Book 62 

In  Memory  of  the  Actor,  Mitterwurzer        .  64 
On  the  Death  of  the  Actor,  Hermann  Miiller  67 
For  a  Commemoration  on  the  Death  of  Ar- 
nold Bocklin 70 

Dramatic  Idyll: 

Idyll :   After  an  Old  Vase  Painting :        .       .  75 


i:j^%g'D  ucTioy^ 


J(J^%IC  "POST 

The  name  of  Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal  is  fairly 
well  known  to  those  who  attempt  to  follow  the 
course  of  modern  literature  in  Europe.  Further- 
more, all  opera-goers  have  come  in  contact  with  it 
from  the  accident  that  two  of  Hofmannsthal's 
plays,  Elektra  and  Der  Rosenkavalier,  were  set  to 
music  by  Richard  Strauss.  His  Elektra  was  also 
acted  in  New  York  by  Mrs.  Patrick  Campbell.  It 
may  nevertheless  be  safely  said  that  the  peculiar 
genius  of  this  author  is  but  little  appreciated  in 
America,  and  that  the  general  impression  among 
those  who  have  heard  of  him  is  of  a  colorful,  neo- 
classical dramatist.  It  is  hoped  that  the  present 
volume  may  serve  to  bring  out  another  and  deeper 
aspect  of  the  poet. 

Judged  by  bulk,  the  lyrics  of  Hofmannsthal's 
might  well  be  neglected  in  a  survey  of  his  writings 
as  a  whole.  He  has  to  his  credit  some  seven  or 
eight  long  plays,  a  dozen  short  plays  and  two  vol- 
umes of  prose  studies.  Against  these  we  can  set  only 
a  small  volume  entitled  Die  Gesammelte  Gedichte, 
including,  apparently,  all  the  poems  which  the  author 
cares  to  have  preserved.  It  contains  but  twenty- 
three  lyrics,  the  rest  of  the  book  consisting  of  a 
short  play,  a  dramatic  idyll  and  several  prologues 
written  for  special  occasions.  But  as  the  short  plays 
excel  the  longer  in  concentrated  art,  so  the  lyrics 

1 


excel  both.  Out  of  this  mere  handful  the  most 
general  German  anthologies  take  some  three  or 
four  poems.  In  a  collection  of  536  poems  covering 
a  period  of  700  years  The  Oxford  Book  of  German 
Verse  includes  three  examples  of  Hofmannsthal. 
Die  Ernie,  a  similar  anthology,  published  in  Ger- 
many, gives  him  four  pages  out  of  466.  This  is  no 
mean  proportion  for  a  living  poet  born  so  late  as 
1874.  Besides,  the  level  of  thought  and  technic  is 
so  maintained  throughout  the  small  body  of  lyrics 
that  (with  one  exception)  the  critic  is  hard  put  to 
it  to  decide  which  are  the  best.  An  entire  school  of 
younger  poets  is  imitating  Hofmannsthal,  as  art 
students  may  be  seen  copying  the  few  authentic 
Giorgiones,  Bellinis  or  Vermeers. 

I 

But  despite  Hofmannsthal's  high  reputation  in 
his  own  literature,  we  may  as  well  admit  at  once 
that  his  poetry  is  confined  to  a  field  of  interest  far 
removed  from  the  thoughts  of  the  average  American. 
We  can  hardly  come  into  a  receptive  state  of  mind 
toward  him  without  picturing  to  ourselves  the 
environment  which  shaped  his  genius. 

The  outward  events  of  Hofmannsthal's  life  ap- 
pear surprisingly  normal.  He  was  born  in  Vienna 
February  1,  1874,  received  the  usual  broad  educa- 
tion of  the  cultivated  Austrian,  traveled,  married, 
and  settled  at  Rodaun,  a  quiet  suburb  of  the  capital. 
Up  to  the  time  of  the  war  he  was  living  the  life 
of  a  secluded  literary  man  with  his  wife  and  chil- 
2 


dren,  sometimes  gracing  a  special  event  in  the  city 
and  occasionally  making  an  excursion  to  visit  his 
friends  in  Paris  or  Italy. 

It  is  to  Hofmannsthal's  environment  in  Vienna 
that  the  peculiar  trend  of  his  art  may  be  traced. 
There  was  perhaps  no  city  twenty-five  years  ago 
where  a  young  man  of  means  and  birth  could  live 
a  life  so  completely  detached  from  that  of  his 
modern  fellow-men.  The  repose  of  antiquity  was 
preserved  there  more  completely  even  than  in  Paris; 
there  was  little  intrusion  of  the  Nineteenth  Century 
business  world  on  the  traditions  of  Maria  Theresa's 
court,  little  ferment  of  democratic  ideals  of  any 
kind.  Beautiful  gardens,  Romanesque  churches, 
palaces  contemporary  with  Versailles,  galleries  rich 
in  Italian  masterpieces — these  were  the  elements  that 
surrounded  the  minds  of  young  men.  Social  and 
political  questions  were  put  to  one  side  or  cheerfully 
left  to  those  whose  concern  they  were  supposed  to 
be.  Certain  conditions  were  admitted  to  be  hope- 
lessly bad,  and,  if  so,  why  should  one  trouble  oneself 
about  them?  Grace  and  gaiety  were  the  prevailing 
characteristics  of  Viennese  life,  as  of  its  typical 
expression,  the  Viennese  waltz. 

To  the  young  man  who  was  able  to  indulge  his 
taste  art  was  the  chief  end  and  purpose  of  being. 
Goethe  had  already  set  the  example  of  artistic  aloof- 
ness by  retiring  to  his  study  to  write  the  West- 
Ostliche  Divan,  while  the  battles  of  the^Napoleonlc 
Wars  were  being  fought  around  him.  Cf he  connect- 

3 


ing  link  between  Goethe  and  the  Vienna  of  the 
Nineties  was  the  tradition  of  Franz  Grillparzer, 
Austria's  great  neo-classical  dramatist,  who~3Ted  m 
1872.  As  Goethe  introduced  modern  characteriza- 
tion into  the  story  of  Iphigenia,  Grillparzer  fol- 
lowed with  his  plays  on  Hero  and  Leander,  Sappho, 
and  Medea.  Other  dramatists,  such  as  Raimund 
and  Wilbrandt,  carried  on  the  tendency  of  cultivat- 
ing a  drama  far  removed  from  the  existence  of  those 
who  witnessed  it,  the  subjects  being  sometimes 
classical,  sometimes  fanciful,  sometimes  from  mediae- 
val historjO  The  influence  of  Shakespeare  was 
turned  in  the  same  direction:  namely,  toward  one 
or  another  phase  of  romanticism.  Beauty  of  pro- 
portion, delicate  fancy,  and  nobility  of  sentiment 
were  the  chief  requirements  of  the  drama,  the  most 
brilliant  field  of  literary  activity  in  Vienna.  Italy, 
the  ideal  home  of  romance,  was  easily  accessible. 
Painters,  with  a  few  notable  exceptions,  turned  their 
faces  thitherward.  Music  and  the  ballet,  always 
prominent  in  the  Austrian  capital,  are  by  their  very 
nature  detached  from  realism.  Thus  the  cultivated 
man  of  Vienna  was  almost  by  compulsion  an 
aesthete. 

Grillparzer*  thought  the  North  Germans  had 
cultivated  their  understanding  at  the  expense  of  their 
feeling,  and  had  thereby  impaired  their  aesthetic 
sense.    But  though  the  typical  Austrian  is  "a  man  of 

*  Quoted  from  the  life  of  Grillparzer  by  Professor 
W.  G.  Howard,  German  Classics,  vol.  VI,  p.  233. 

4 


feeling,"  the  human  mind  everywhere  must,  it 
seems,  have  problems  to  solve.  If  the  contemporary 
world  be  shut  out,  these  problems  will  naturally  be 
subjective.  Also,  as  many  observers  have  noted, 
listening  to  sweet  music  and  looking  on  at  a  scene 
of  continued  gaiety  are  apt  to  induce  a  pleasurable, 
but  often  profound,  mood  of  melancholy.  The  so- 
journer in  Italy,  particularly  in  Venice,  may  have 
been  struck  with  a  similar  feeling. 

II 

We  may  seem  to  have  wandered  rather  far  afield, 
but  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  have  tried,  in  the  preceding 
part  of  this  introduction,  to  write  the  biography  of 
Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal  in  the  only  way  that  came 
to  hand.  There  is  no  poem  translated  in  this  volume 
which  will  not  be  largely  accounted  for  by  the  con- 
siderations that  have  just  been  presented.  Instead 
of  being  a  unique  and  totally  unrelated  personality 
in  literature,  Hofmannsthal  was  in  many  respects 
the  normal  product  of  these,  to  us,  abnormal  con- 
ditions. 

He  had,  however,  a  marked  personality  in  addi- 
tion. In  the  first  place  he  may  be  called  an  ex- 
tremist of  his  kind:  an  extreme  lover  of  rich  and 
remote  beauty,  an  artist  unusually  detached  from 
everyday  existence,  a  genius  of  oppressive  melan- 
choly, a  magician  of  startling  power  in  the  revelation 
of  human  consciousness,  an  unequaled  exponent  of 
style.     Furthermore,  all  these  faculties  appeared  in 

5 


him  at  so  early  an  age  as  to  make  him  a  literary 
prodigy,  in  this  respect  (as  in  others  to  be  noted 
later)  resembling  Rossetti.  In  his  first  short  plays, 
Gestern  and  Tod  des  Tizian,  written  at  the  ages 
of  seventeen  and  eighteen  respectively,  his  style  was 
already  that  of  a  mature  master.  He  has  since  ex- 
hibited greater  variety,  but  hardly  greater  power. 
As  a  boy  of  seventeen  Hofmannsthal  was  acclaimed 
by  many  critics  as  technically  the  greatest  German 
poet  since  Goethe. 

The  bent  of  Hofmannsthal's  genius  soon  brought 
him  into  association  with  two  similarly  minded  Ger- 
man poets:  Stefan  George  and  Rainer  Maria  Rilke. 
These  three  united  in  a  publication  called  Blatter 
fiir  die  Kunst  to  combat  the  unmitigated  realism  of 
contemporary  German  literature,  as  represented  by 
the  plays  of  Sudermann  and  the  poetry  of  Lilien- 
cron.  The  three  young  apostles  of  beauty  main- 
tained that*  "the  poet,  in  order  to  depict  life  as  life 
really  is,  must  take  no  part  in  it."  Of  George's 
work  Hofmannsthal  wrote  in  words  that  may 
equally  be  applied  to  himself  :t  "He  so  completely 
conquered  life,  so  absolutely  mastered  it,  that  from 
his  poems  the  rare,  indescribable  peace  and  refresh- 
ing coolness  of  a  still,  dark  temple  are  wafted  upon 
our  noise-racked  senses." 

But   Hofmannsthal   did   not,   like   his  associates, 

*  Quoted  by  permission  from  an  article  on  Hofmanns- 
thal by  Elisabeth  Walter  in  the  Colonnade,  December, 
1916,  New  York. 

t  Ibid. 


leave  his  fame  to  rest  on  lyric  poetry.  He  went  on 
for  a  time  with  the  one-act  poetical  soul-dramas  of 
which  Gestern  was  the  first.  Of  these  the  finest 
and  best  known  are  Tor  und  Tod,  Der  Weiss e 
Fdcher  and  Die  Frau  im  Fenster,  all  deeply  imagi- 
native studies  of  great  spiritual  moments.  The 
third,  which  (though  almost  entirely  a  monologue) 
is  the  most  dramatic  of  the  three,  has  been  acted  in 
New  York.  Then  came  longer  plays  on  original 
themes,  the  best  of  which  is  Die  Hochzeit  der 
Sobeide. 

Hofmannsthal's  greatest  success,  however,  has 
been  won  with  plays  which,  like  Goethe's  Iphigenie 
and  Grillparzer's  Medea,  are  modeled  around 
themes  of  earlier  dramatic  masterpieces.  His 
method  is  simply  to  take  the  old  story,  rearrange 
the  scenes  freely,  and  completely  re-create  the  char- 
acters. In  the  case  of  his  best-known  play  Elektra 
he  does  but  do  as  Euripides  did:  namely,  render 
the  dignified  characters  of  the  earlier  Greek  trage- 
dians thoroughly  human  from  the  standpoint  of  a 
later  day.  Thus  the  treatment  of  Elektra  in  Hof- 
mannsthal's play  has  been  called  pathological,  be- 
cause that  is  the  only  way  in  which,  with  our 
demand  for  psychology,  we  can  be  made  to  realize 
the  state  of  the  human  mind  in  so  terrible  a  situa- 
tion. The  effect  is  certainly  "unclassic"  and  to 
many  people  too  painfully  human.  But  on  any 
score  Elektra  is  an  important  play.  Hofmannsthal 
has  given  a  similarly  free  rendering  of  classic  ma- 

7 


terlal  in  Odipus  und  die  Sphinx  a.nd  has  also  trans- 
lated Sophocles'  play  as  Konig  Odipus. 

The  influence  of  the  English  drama  appears  in 
a  recasting  of  Otway's  Venice  Preserved  as  Das 
Gerettete  Venedig,  in  which  far  greater  verisimili- 
tude is  given  to  the  characters  than  w^as  the  fashion 
in  Otway's  time.  Hofmannsthal  has  also  handled 
very  freely  the  theme  of  the  old  morality  Everyman, 
giving  a  skilful  German  coloring  by  infusing  ma- 
terial from  an  old  play  of  Hans  Sachs.  In  his 
last  plays,  Christinas  Heimreise  and  Der  Rosen- 
kavalier,  we  find  the  author  successful  in  his  first 
attempts  at  comedy.  Two  volumes  of  Prosaische 
Schriften  consist  of  subtle  studies  in  literature,  in 
religion,  and  in  character.  Among  these  the  essay 
Shakespeare's  Konige  und  Grosse  Herren  may  be 
noted. 

Ill 

With  some  knowledge  of  Hofmannsthal's  career 
and  literary  proclivities,  we  may  proceed  to  examine 
the  small  but  very  important  body  of  non-dramatic 
poetry  here  to  be  presented.  The  principle  to  be 
kept  in  mind  throughout  is,  as  Miss  Walter  has 
well  phrased  it:*  ''Every  one  of  Hofmannsthal's 
poems  expresses  some  condition  of  the  soul  in  terms 
of  beauty,  and  always  the  universal  behind  the 
beautiful."  The  well-worn  axiom  that  beauty  is 
truth  has  seldom  been  better  exemplified  since  the 
time  of  Keats. 

*  Cf.  the  article  in  the  Colonnade  already  cited. 

8 


The  beauty  of  Hofmannsthal's  poetry  should 
need  little  further  comment,  even  when  his  work 
is  given  only  in  translation.  Miss  Walter  cites  a 
criticism  on  his  poems:*  "They  were  not  written  to 
instruct,  but  to  arouse  sensation,  to  awaken  the 
indescribable."  We  must  not,  however,  lose  touch 
with  the  imaginative  truth  that  underlies  these 
poems,  thef  "ugly  facts"  represented  in  "pretty 
symbols."  That  the  symbols  of  Hofmannsthal's 
poetry  are  far  from  being  a  mere  play  of  fancy,  the 
author  indicates  in  his  prologue  For  a  Similar  Book: 

For  we  have  made  a  play  from  out  the  life 

We  live,  and  mingled  with  our  comedy 

Our  truth  keeps  ever  gliding  in  and  out   .    .    . 
etc. 

It  is  in  the  interfusion  of  universal  truth  with 
beauty  of  rhythm,  with  verbal  melody,   and  with  * 
colorful  imagery  that  the  magic  of  the  poet  consists. 
In  any  given  piece  he  at  once  creates  the  mood  ap- 
propriate to  his  central   idea,  so  that  the  reader, 
delighted  by  the  art,  soon  gives  up  any  attempt  at 
cold  analysis.     The  thought  is  first  melted  into  a 
feeling  such  as  might   be  inspired   by  music,   then  -. 
the  feeling  is  defined  by  a  succession  of  mental  pic-x( 
tures.     A  typical  example  of  this  is  found  in  the 
poem    A    Vision.      The    blending    of    the    theme. 
Death,  with  the  glowing  picture  and  the  deep  cello- 
like music  of  the  verse  should,  unless  the  translation 

*  Cf.  the  article  in  the  Colonnade  already  cited. 

t  Cf.  "Prologue  to  the  Book  Anatol." 

9 


is  an  utter  failure,  be  easily  apparent.  But  it  is 
perhaps  incorrect  to  speak  of  blending,  where  the 
poem  is  so  entirely  an  organic  unit.  Hofmannsthal* 
jiuJ/^  deprecates  the  use  of  the  terms  "inward"  and  "out- 
"^  ward"  with  reference  to  art  and  life,  because  to 
him  they  express  no  real  distinction. 

Although  Hofmannsthal  was  a  product  of  his 
environment  and  was  even  part  of  a  literary  ten- 
dency, the  forcefulness  of  his  genius  was  sufficient 
to  raise  him  far  above  his  possible  rivals.  Neither 
the  vaguely  mystical  lyrics  of  Stefan  George  nor 
the  wistful  reveries  of  Rilke  can  compare  in  ultimate 
importance  with  the  work  of  their  associate.  The 
intellect  of  Hofmannsthal  dominates  the  school  to 
which  he  belongs  and  has  already  called  forth  many 
followers.  He  is  the  one  symbolist  writing  in  Ger- 
man who  has  an  absolutely  sure  touch,  a  perfect 
sense  of  balance  in  all  that  he  does.  In  this  respect 
also  his  plays  seem  to  me  to  excel  those  of  Maeter- 
linck. 

The  English  poets  who  most  resemble  Hof- 
mannsthal are  Vaughan,  Blake,  Rossetti  and  Francis 
Thompson.  Vaughan's  ability  to  soar  into  a  world 
of  spiritual  exaltation  is  not  unlike  what  we  find  in 
A  Dream  of  the  Higher  Magic.  Vaughan,  however, 
takes  his  moral  sense  and  his  human  feelings  with 
him,  whereas  the  daemon  of  Hofmannsthal  surveys 
all  things  impersonally.    The  splendor  of  their  lan- 

*  Cf.  Professor  Seiberth's  Life  of  Hofmannsthal,  Ger- 
man Classics,  vol.  XVII,  p.  484. 

10 


guage  and  imagery  is  very  similar,  except  that  the 
brilliance  of  the  English  poet  shows  in  flashes,  that 
of  the  Austrian  in  a  deep  and  constant  glow.  Blake 
is  like  Hofmannsthal  in  the  abstractness  of  his  poetic 
world,  and  his  doctrine  that  the  imagination  is  God 
comes  very  near  that  pictured  in  A  Dream  of  the 
Higher  Magic.  But  Blake's  expression  is  simple 
and  intuitive;  his  is  altogether  a  more  aerial  spirit. 
In  their  combination  of  somewhat  heavily  decora- 
tive style  with  mystic  thought,  Rossetti  and  Thomp- 
son stand  much  nearer  to  Hofmannsthal  than  do 
the  earlier  poets.  "Fundamental  brainwork,"  to 
quote  Rossetti's  famous  phrase,  is  almost  equally 
evident  in  the  three;  the  underlying  plan  of  their 
poems  is  laid  with  a  similar  definiteness.  Hof- 
mannsthal differs  from  Rossetti  in  that  he  gives 
more  general  pictures,  producing  effects  more  purely 
like  those  of  music;  whereas  the  pre-Raphaelite 
revels  in  sharply  drawn  detail.  Both  Rossetti  and 
Thompson  seem  much  more  passionate;  Hofmanns- 
thal's  egiotlon  is  always  subdued  and.  even  in  tex- 
ture. The  quaint,  rather  self-conscious  style  of  the 
V^  modern  English  poets  contrasts  with  the  smoQth 
diction  of  Hofmannsthal,  whose  mind  moves  in  its 
omT  spiritual  world  with  the  seemingly  unconscious 
grace  of  a  golden  fish  in  shadowy  depths. 

IV 

Because  the  quality  of  Hofmannsthal's  mood  is 
so  all-pervasive,  we  have  spoken  much  of  the  effects 

11 


which  his  poetry  produces,  without  giving  more  than 
a  hint  of  its  actual  content.  This  content  might  be 
defined  as  impersonally  subjective,  if  the  phrase  does 
not  seem  to  be  an  oxymoron.  What  is  meant  is  that 
Hofmannsthal  writes  of  his  own  consciousness,  or 
that  of  others  with  whom  he  for  the  moment  identi- 
fies himself,  in  a  manner  which  shows  great  power 
of  divination  but  only  the  most  remote  shade  of 
sympathy.  He  does  not  wish  human  emotion  to 
disturb  him  in  his  attempt  to  contemplate  reality. 
For  instance,  in  The  Two  he  symbolizes  admirably 
the  mysterious  relation  of  sex  to  sex,  but  we  who 
read,  instead  of  being  stirred  to  a  poignant  feeling 
of  pity,  are  only  impelled  to  murmur:  "How  strange 
is  truth!"  Similarly  in  the  poem  Of  Mutability, 
when  he  says  it  is 

A  thing  too  dreadful  for  the  trivial  tear: 
That  all  things  glide  away  from  out  our  clasp, 

we  are  in  no  real  danger  of  a  tear  or  even  of  a 
shudder.  This  impassive  attitude  toward  the  facts 
of  life  gives  a  tone  of  fatalism  to  nearly  every  poem 
in  the  volume.  The  interest  shown  in  nature  and 
humanity  is  exclusively  artistic  and  speculative. 

The  earlier  poems  of  this  volume  are  purely 
philosophical  or  symbolic  of  the  poet's  own  sensa- 
tions. The  Three  Little  Songs  are  somewhat  more 
personal  than  the  pieces  which  precede  them;  but 
even  the  third,  a  most  delicate  bit  of  lyricism,  has 
not  the  ring  of  ordinary  human  feeling.  In  the 
12 


remarkable  group  of  Figures  the  poet  Identifies  his 
soul  with  those  of  such  various  persons  as  the 
Emperor  of  China,  a  child,  a  captive  ship's  cook, 
and  the  collective  personality  of  several  interacting 
characters  at  a  social  entertainment.  Into  each  of 
these  minds  in  turn  we  are  made  to  enter  by  the 
same  exquisite  art  which,  in  the  earlier  lyrics, 
enables  us  to  examine  the  intimacies  of  the  poet's 
own  consciousness.  The  Idyll  at  the  end  is  a  neo- 
classic  study  of  the  same  kind,  except  that,  instead 
of  being  static,  it  has  dramatic  motion,  thus  pointing 
the  reader  on  to  Hofmannsthal's  plays. 

We  have  still  to  mention  the  Prologues  and  Ad- 
dresses-of-Mourning.  These,  though  in  a  somewhat 
different  vein,  are  wonderfully  fascinating  poems. 
The  prologue  to  Anatol  is  a  delicious  piece  of  atmos- 
phere. With  the  following  prologue  it  constitutes, 
as  we  have  indicated,  a  good  exposition  of  the 
author's  artistic  purpose:  namely,  to  present  the 
truth,  but  only  under  the  mask  of  beauty.  In  this 
point  Hofmannsthal  differs  from  Arthur  Schnitzler, 
author  of  the  short  realistic  plays  grouped  under  the 
title  Anatol.  Schnitzler,  though  he  is  what  we 
might  call  a  selective  realist,  lets  us  at  times  see  the 
ugliness  of  life  pretty  clearly. 

Tributes  to  the  two  actors,  Mitterwurzer  and 
Miiller,  show  how  intensely  Hofmannsthal  feels 
the  identity  of  soul  and  body.  He  is,  to  be  sure, 
thinking  only  of  the  soul  of  the  given  actor,  but  this 
soul  has  the  gift  of  so  informing  and  transforming 

13 


the  body  it  inhabits  that  the  two  cannot  be  thought 
of  as  separate,  but  only  as  mingled  in  varying  pro- 
portions. The  poem  on  Bocklin  is  of  course  the 
finest  of  the  five,  showing  as  it  does  how  the  spirit 
of  a  true  artist  can  "adorn  the  image  of  the  world" 
for  us  and  can  thus  live  in  the  added  charm  which  it 
flings  over  the  visible  forms  of  nature. 


Professor  Seiberth  writes:*  "As  a  thinker  Hof- 
mannsthal  is  not  in  any  definite  sense  a  didactic  or 
philosophical  poet.  The  true  poet  is  temperamen- 
tally incapable  and  impatient  of  close  systematic 
thinking."  Without  stopping  further  to  confute 
the  absurdity  of  the  second  statement  than  by  men- 
tioning the  names  of  Dante,  Milton,  Shelley  and 
Goethe,  we  may  well  examine  the  validity  of  the 
first.  A  notedf  Professor  of  Philosophy,  who  is 
unusually  well  acquainted  with  modern  literature, 
says  that  Hofmannsthal  is  the  greatest  living  philo- 
sophic poet  in  Europe.  This  raises  a  question  we 
can  not  afford  to  pass  over. 

Of  course  it  is  possible  for  many  readers  not 
interested  in  pure  philosophy  to  enjoy  Hofmanns- 
thal's  poetry  simply  as  poetry,  but  a  little  examina- 
tion will  convince  most  of  them  that  the  poet  has  a 
remarkably  well-defined  conception  of  the  universe. 
In  the  first  place,  he  "thinks  unity"  very  strongly, 

*  German  Classics,  vol.  XVII,  p.  484. 

t  Prof.  Edgar  Singer  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania. 

14 


he  feels  the  deep  connection  between  all  times,  all_ 
places  and  all  things,  whether  spiritual  or  material. 
This   is   superbly  imaged   in   the  lines  of  Interde- 
pendence: 

From  the  weariness  of  forgotten  peoples 
Vainly  would  I  liberate  mine  eyelids, 
Or  would  keep  my  startled  soul  at  distance 
From  the  silent  fall  of  far-off  planets. 

But  a  more  unusual  doctrine,  exemplified  in  A 
Dream  of  the  Higher  Magic,  has  been  taken  from 
the  philosophy  of  Giordano  Bruno.  Bruno's*  hy- 
pothesis pictures  the  soul  of  man  as  standing  midway 
between  the  divine  intelligence  and  the  world  of 
what  we  call  external  phenomena.  It  is  immortal 
because  it  partakes  of  the  divine  existence.  Its 
highest  function  is  to  contemplate  the  divine  unity 
which  is  discoverable  in  the  manifold  appearances 
of  material  objects.  Take  now^  the  concluding  lines 
of  the  poem: 

Our  soul's  a  Cherub,  and  of  lordly  birth — 
Dwells  not  in  us,  but  in  some  upper  star 
Fixes  his  throne  and  leaves  us  oft  in  dearth. 

Yet  deep  in  us  his  fiery  motions  are: 
— So  in  my  dream  I  seemed  to  understand — 
And  he  holds  converse  with  yon  fires  afar, 
And  lives  in  me  as  I  do  in  my  hand. 

*  Cf.  Encyclopedia  Britannica,  Ninth  Edition,  sub 
Bruno. 

15 


We  may  here  take  it  that  the  Adept  is  none  other 
than  man's  soul  (or,  as  Blake  would  have  said, 
imagination),  the  supposedly  eternal  power  that 
comes  into  the  human  mind  and  performs  all  manner 
of  marvels,  overleaping  the  material  boundaries  of 
time  and  space.  This  "Greatest  Magician,"  or  (as 
he  is  later  called)  "Cherub,"  is  the  medium  of  com- 
munication between  Divinity  and  Mortality.  He 
may  be  analyzed  after  the  Hegelian  fashion  into  the 
antithetical  concepts  of  spirit  and  matter,  with  the 
understanding  that  these  two  are  in  reality  indi- 
visibly  united.  Hofmannsthal  has  also  undertaken 
in  this  poem  to  solve  the  problems  of  time  and 
space,  and  of  appearance  and  reality  by  assuming  all 
of  these  to  be  conditions  of  our  thinking,  which 
therefore  the  mind,  when  stimulated  by  special 
inspiration,  can  transcend.  From  this  poem  it  would 
seem  (Professor  Seiberth  to  the  contrary  notwith- 
standing) that  Hofmannsthal  was  in  a  very  definite 
sense  a  philosophical  poet. 

Similar  ideas  to  those  just  spoken  of  may  be  found 
throughout  the  poems  in  this  volume.  Of  course 
they  can  not  always  be  so  clearly  perceived.  I  can 
hardly  hazard  a  guess  at  what  is  meant  by  Life- 
Song,  World-Secret  is  evidently  not  meant  to 
convey  more  than  an  elusive  suggestion.  Such 
Stuff  as  Dreams  would  seem  to  express  an  idea 
similar  to  that  of  A  D?-eam  of  the  Higher  Magic. 
Perhaps  the  child  is  the  link  which  binds  the  dream 
and  the  moon,  as  the  cherub  is  the  link  which  binds 
16 


"yon  fires  afar"  with  mortal  life.  The  other  poems 
can,  I  think,  be  enjoyed  at  least  as  well  without  the 
intrusion  of  any  further  analysis. 

VI 

In  the  spring  of  1908  I  had  the  honor  of  calling 
on  Herr  von  Hofmannsthal  at  his  house  in  Rodaun. 
His  way  of  life  appeared  extremely  simple,  there 
being  a  notable  absence  of  the  paraphernalia  of 
luxury  in  the  rooms  I  saw.  There  were  none  of 
the  pictures  or  other  works  of  art  which  a  connois- 
seur of  beauty  might  be  supposed  to  revel  in.  It 
has  since  occurred  to  me  that  probably  the  poet 
does  not  care  to  have  his  eyes  and  mind  distracted 
by  numerous  objects. 

Herr  von  Hofmannsthal  is  a  well-built  man  of 
middle  height  with  a  high,  square  forehead,  rather 
sensuous  nose  and  lips,  and  very  dark  hair,  mus- 
taches and  eyes.  Without  seeming  secretive,  he 
managed  to  reveal  almost  nothing  of  himself  in  our 
talk,  asking  me  questions  most  of  the  time  about 
the  old  English  drama.  The  only  remark  he  made 
on  himself  was  when,  in  answer  to  some  tribute  of 
admiration  on  his  work,  he  said:  *'I  realize  that  I 
write  for  only  about  five  hundred  people  in  Europe." 

Though  some  of  Hofmannsthal's  plays  have  been 
very  successful  on  the  stage  and  have  run  to  from 
ten  to  thirty  editions,  the  fact  remains  that  his  best 
work  is  for  the  few.     He  does  not  picture  life  as 

17 


the  ordinary  man  sees  it  or  can  see  it.  He  general- 
izes what  he  sees  in  nature  and  eliminates  the  detail, 
like  the  designer  of  a  stained-glass  window.  His 
interest  in  a  given  idea,  scene  or  personality  is  only 
for  the  purpose  of  arriving  at  some  philosophical 
conclusion.  The  result  in  his  art  is  arresting,  both 
intellectually  and  aesthetically,  but  cannot  be  dis- 
sociated in  the  reader's  mind  from  a  feeling  of 
monotony  and  oppression,  as  if  one  were  shut  up  in 
the  darkly  beautiful  temple  to  which  Hofmannsthal 
compares  the  poetry  of  Stefan  George.  There  is 
a  lack  of  free  air  and  natural  light.  His  thought 
has,  far  more  than  Matthew  Arnold's,  the  melan- 
choly of  the  pantheist. 

But  what  a  master  of  imagery!  How  wonder- 
fully this  young  poet  succeeds  in  conveying  the  deep 
dreams  of  his  imagination!  His  figures  of  speech 
show  a  particular  fondness  for  children,  whose  eyes 
seem  to  him  to  behold  more  of  mystery  than  the 
power  of  language  can  express.  He  loves  the 
stage,  because  there  the  soul  can  best  show  its  power 
to  transform  itself.  His  outdoor  nature  is  never 
specified  in  any  particular  country,  except  that  the 
Travel  Song  must  refer  to  Italy,  the  favorite  setting 
of  his  early  plays.  But  though  certain  preferences 
are  apparent  in  the  figures  of  speech,  the  memorable 
power  and  originality  of  the  Hofmannsthal  simile 
(which  is  also  a  symbol)  can  be  explained  only  by 
genius. 

Imagery  can  always,  in  some  sort,  be  translated; 
18 


verbal  felicity  must  of  course  be  largely  lost,  or  at 
best  but  partly  re-created,  in  a  new  medium  of  ex- 
pression. Though  Hofmannsthal  is  so  often  thought 
of  as  a  stylist,  he  has  no  obtrusive  mannerism  of 
form.  He  obtains  large  effects  by  comparatively 
simple  and  direct  means.  Style  with,  him  is  not  a 
trick,  but  a  gift;  the  mood  clothes  itself  with  the 
fitting  expression,  that  is  all  one  can  say.  As  the 
mood  is  so  often  somber,  the  sound  of  the  words  is  ,^ 
correspondingly  sonorous  and  full  of  gloomy  dignity. 
In  the  Lines  to  a  Little  Child,  however,  the  tone 
is  naive  and  gay,  in  Society  it  is  confused  and  ani- 
mated. The  variety  of  verse-form  is  likewise  con- 
siderable, marked  preference  being  given  to  the 
Italian  terza  rima,  which  is  peculiarly  suited  to  the 
complex,  closely  woven  quality  of  the  thought. 

In  conclusion,  we  must  concede  that  Hofmanns- 
thal's  lyric  poetry  is  a  highly  special  literary  phe- 
nomenon. Professor  Grummann  objects  that*  "it 
is  pervaded  by  an  artistic  atmosphere  acquired  by 
idling  in  art  museums  rather  than  in  immediate 
contact  with  life."  To  this  we  may  answer  that 
there  are  two  opposite  definitions  of  what  is  meant 
by  life.  It  is  one  thing  to  describe  in  the  manner  of 
an  observant  traveler  the  scenes  and  persons  which 
meet  the  outward  eye ;  it  is  another  to  reveal  the  soul 
to  itself.  To  most  persons  the  second  sort  of  artist 
will  mean  very  little,  but  to  a  few  he  will  give  a 
delight  that  is  almost  overpowering.     Under  the 

*  German  Classics,  vol.  XVIII,  pp.  289-290. 

19 


spell  of  Hofmannsthal  one  feels  as  when  listening 
to  the  Andante  of  a  mighty  symphony  written  in  a 
minor  key.  The  poet,  like  a  leader  in  his  orchestral 
eminence,  dominates  his  audience  in  soul,  mind  and 
body.  From  such  moments  we  return  to  the  uses 
of  ordinary  life  in  surprise  at  how  deeply  we  were 
rapt  by  the  potency  of  the  master's  art. 


20 


TU%§j[j^  C^'KIC^Ji  "Pi^C^s 


EARLY  SPRING.  Early 

The  spring  wind  is  gliding 

Mid  boughs  that  are  bare, 
In  his  heart  hiding 

Strange  things  and  rare. 

His  cradle  hath  swung 

In  sob-shaken  air, 
And  oft  hath  he  clung 

In  passion-loosed  hair. 

Acacia  blossoms 

Beneath  him  snowed, 
His  breath  cooled  the  bosoms 

That  throbbing  glowed. 

Lips  in  their  laughter 

First  he  would  claim, 
Soft  fields  thereafter 

Woke  when  he  came. 

The  flute  he  passed  through  in 

A  sobbing  cry, 
The  sunset's  red  ruin 

He  swiftly  flew  by. 

In  silence  proceeding 

Through  whispering  rooms. 
And  quenched  with  his  speeding 

The  lamps'  yellow  blooms. 

23 


Early     The  spring  wind  is  gliding 
Spring       Mid  boughs  that  are  bare, 
In  his  heart  hiding 

Strange  things  and  rare. 

Through  the  reviving 
Alleys  and  meadow^s 

His  breath  is  driving 
Wraith-like  shadows. 

A  scent  without  name 
He  bears  in  his  flight 

From  whence  he  came 
Since  yester-night. 


24 


A  VISION  [Erlebnis],  A  Vision 

The  valley  with  a  silver-gra5ash  mist 

Of  twilight  was  o'erbrimmed,  as  when  the  moon 

Filters  through  clouds.    And  yet  it  was  not  night. 

In  the  silver-grayish  mist  of  yon  dark  valley 

My    twilight-shimmering    thoughts    were    wholly 

blended ; 
Softly  I  sank  into  the  shifting  depths 
Of  that  transparent  sea — and  left  this  life. 
What  wondrous  flowers  bloomed  about  me  there 
With  darkly  glowing  chalices! — dim  thickets 
Transfused  with  streams  of  reddish-yellow  light, 
Warm  as  a  glowing  topaz.    And  the  vale 
Was  filled  with  deep  vibrating  harmony 
Of  melancholy  music.     Then  I  knew — 
Though  how,  I  comprehend  not — yet  I  knew 
That  this  was  Death;  Death  was  transformed  to 

music. 
Mightily  yearning,  sweet,  and  darkly  glowing. 
Akin  to  deepest  melancholy. 

Yet- 
How  strange !  a  sort  of  homesickness  for  life 
Wept  silently  within  my  soul,  it  wept 
As  one  may  weep  when  on  a  towering  ship. 
That  drives  toward  evening  with  gigantic  sails 
Across  the  dark-blue  waves,  he  passes  by 
A  town,  his  native  town.     He  sees  before  him 
The  streets,  he  hears  the  fountains  gush,  he  breathes 
The  scent  of  lilac-bushes;  on  the  bank 

25 


A   Vision    He  sees  himself  a  child  with  childish  eyes 
Anxious  and  almost  weeping,  sees  a  light 
Through  the  wide  window  burning  in  his  room. 
But  the  huge  vessel  bears  him  ever  on, 
Silently  speeding  o'er  the  dark-blue  waves 
With  giant  sails  of  yellow,  strangely  shaped. 


26 


TRAVEL  SONG.  Travel 

Water  plunges  to  devour  us, 
Rocks  would  crush  with  rolling  leap, 
Strong-winged  birds  to  overpower  us 
Haunt  our  path  with  threatening  sweep. 

But  beneath  us  lies  a  land 
Where,  in  ageless  lakes  reflected, 
Ripened  fruits  forever  glow. 
Marble  fount  and  statue  stand 
Deep  in  groves  of  bloom  protected. 
And  the  gentle  breezes  blow. 


27 


The  Two  THE  TWO. 


Her  hand  bore  well  the  cup  to  him — 
— Her  cheek  and  mouth  were  like  its  rim — 
So  lightly,  surely,  too,  she  stepped 
That  not  a  drop  the  rim  o'erlept. 

As  light  and  firm  too  was  his  hand ; 
His  fiery  mount  but  fresh  from  pasture 
At  one  impulsive,  easy  gesture 
Stood  quivering  where  he  bade  it  stand. 

Yet  it  befell  that  when  his  hand 
Would  take  from  hers  the  drink  unwasted, 
The  feat  for  both  was  overmuch; 
For  both  so  trembled  at  the  touch. 
That  fingers  failed,  and  on  the  sand 
The  precious  wine  rolled  down  untasted. 


28 


LIFE-SONG.  Life-Song 

On  peacock,  lamb  and  eagle 
His  youthful  lordship  brave 
May  waste  the  ointment  regal 
An  old  dead  woman  gave. 
The  dead,  whose  flight  upstreameth 
And  o'er  the  tree-tops  gleameth, — 
Naught  more  are  these,  he  deemeth, 
Than  dancers'  robes  that  wave. 

He  goes  as  if  no  justling 
Behind  e'er  threateneth. 
He  smiles  whene'er  the  rustling 
Of  Life's  robe  whispers:  Death! 
For  every  place  delights  him 
And  every  door  invites  him, 
Each  passion-wave  incites  him 
As  lone  he  wandereth. 

When  wild-bee  swarms  are  winging, 

His  soul  pursues  in  play; 

The  dolphins  with  their  singing 

Upbear  him  on  his  way. 

All  countries  are  his  dwelling, 

But  soon  with  hand  compelling 

A  dark  stream,  ever  swelling. 

Will  bound  his  shepherd's-day. 


On  peacock,  lamb  and  eagle 
My  lord  with  laughter  brave 


29 


Life-Song   May  waste  the  ointment  regal 
An  old  dead  woman  gave, 
On  friends  a  smile  bestowing, 
Through  Life's  fair  garden  going 
Toward  dim  gulfs,  all  unknowing, 
From  which  no  skill  can  save. 


30 


"THY  FACE.  ..."  <<Thy  Face'' 

Thy  face  was  laden  all  with  reverie. 
Silent  and  trembling  then  I  looked  on  thee. 
Ah  how  the  thought  came  back!  that  even  so 
Upon  a  former  night  I  yielded  me 

Unto  the  moon  and  that  beloved  vale 
Where  on  the  naked  hill-side  rose  a  frail 
And  broken  screen  of  pines,  around  whose  stems 
Low-flying  cloudlets  oftentimes  would  sail, 

While  freshly,  strangely  through  the  stillness  clave 
The  dashing  of  the  pallid  silvery  wave 
From  the  deep  river, — How  it  all  came  back! — 
How  it  came  back !    For  to  those  things  I  gave 

My  very  soul  in  mighty  yearning  there. 
Yea,  to  that  scene,  so  fruitless  and  so  fair; 
As  now  I  yield  me  to  thine  eyes  that  glow, 
And  to  the  magic  of  thy  loosened  hair. 


31 


World'Secret  WORLD-SECRET. 


The  deep  well  knows  it  certainly ; 
Once  all  things  else  were  deep  and  still, 
And  all  then  knew  their  fill. 

Like  master-words  a  child  lisps  o'er, 
From  mouth  to  mouth  the  tale  doth  flit 
And  no  one  comprehendeth  it. 

The  deep  well  knows  it  certainly; 
And  leaning  there  a  man  would  know, 
But  rising  up,  would  lose  it  so. 

Would  wildly  talk,  and  make  a  song. — 
O'er  this  dark  mirror,  as  it  chanced, 
A  child  leant  down  and  was  entranced. 

And  grew,  and  knew  itself  no  more. 
And  was  a  woman;  then  love  came 
And — who  the  gifts  of  love  can  name. 

And  all  the  knowledge  love  bestows? — 

In  kisses  was  she  deeply  ware 

Of  dim-divined  memories  rare.  .    .    . 

Within  our  words  it  lieth  hid. 

As  beggars'  feet  o'er  sand  might  pace 

Above  a  jewel's  resting-place. 

The  deep  well  knows  it  certainly ; 
Once  in  this  lore  were  all  men  wise, 
Now  but  a  vague  dream,  circling,  flies. 

32 


OF    THE    OUTWARD    LIFE     {Ballade    des  Outward 
Ausseren  Lebens].  Life 

And  children,  that  with  deep  unknowing  gaze 
Look  out  upon  the  world,  grow  up  and  die, 
And  all  men  travel  on  their  several  ways. 

And  sweet  fruits  after  bitter  follow  nigh, 

Till  like  dead  birds  by  night  they  fall  to  ground 

And  in  few  days  wax  rotten  where  they  lie. 

And  still  the  wind  blows,  and  we  hear  the  sound 
Of  words  and  utter  them  with  idle  breath. 
And  joy  we  feel  and  weariness  profound. 

And  roads  there  are  where  one  encountereth 
Cities,  with  trees  and  lights  in  glittering  range ; 
Some  threatening,  some  withered  as  in  death.  .   .   . 

Why  are  these  built,  each  to  the  other  strange 
In  form  and  fashion,  though  no  few  they  be? 
And  why  do  tears  and  laughter  interchange  ? 

What  are  these  childish  toys  to  us,  since  we 
Are  full-grown  men,  who  live  apart  each  one 
And  roam  without  a  goal  unceasingly? 

What  boots  it  much  to  have  seen  the  while  we 

roam  ? — 
And  yet  he  sayeth  much,  who  "Evening"  saith. 
A  word  whence  deep  and  solemn  meanings  run 


Like  heavy  honey  from  the  hollow  comb. 


33 


Mutability   OF  MUTABILITY  [Terzinen  /]. 

Still,  still  upon  my  cheek  I  feel  their  breath : 
How  can  it  be  that  days  which  seem  so  near 
Are  gone,  forever  gone,  and  lost  in  death? 

This  is  a  thing  that  none  may  rightly  grasp, 
A  thing  too  dreadful  for  the  trivial  tear: 
That  all  things  glide  away  from  out  our  clasp ; 

And  that  this  I,  unchecked  by  years,  has  come 

Across  into  me  from  a  little  child. 

Like  an  uncanny  creature,  strangely  dumb; — 

That  I  existed  centuries  past — somewhere, 
That  ancestors  on  whom  the  earth  is  piled 
Are  yet  as  close  to  me  as  my  very  hair. 

As  much  a  part  of  me  as  my  very  hair. 


34 


DEATH  [Terzinen  II],  Death 

What  hours  are  those!  when,  shinlngly  outspread, 
The  ocean  lures  us,  and  we  lightly  learn 
The  solemn  lore  of  death,  and  feel  no  dread : 

As  little  girls,  whose  great  eyes  seem  to  yearn, 
Girls  that  have  pallid  cheeks  and  limbs  a-cold, 
Some  evening  look  far  out  and  do  not  turn 

Their  feebly-smiling  gaze,  for,  loosing  hold 
Upon  their  slumber-drunken  limbs,  the  flood 
Of  life  glides  over  into  grass  and  wold; — 

Or  as  a  saint  pours  out  her  martyr  blood. 


35 


''Such  Stuff     "SUCH  STUFF  AS  DREAMS"  [Terzinen  III], 

as  Drea7ns**   c    r       n-      ^        •      -  ,    , 

buch  stuiT  as  dreaming  is  we  mortals  be, 

And  every  dream  doth  open  wide  its  eyes 

Like  a  small  child  beneath  a  cherry  tree, 

Above  whose  top  across  the  deepening  skies 
The  pale  full-moon  emerges  for  its  flight. — 
Not  otherwise  than  so  our  dreams  arise. 

They  live  as  a  child  that  laughs,  and  to  the  sight 
Appear  no  smaller  on  their  curving  way 
Than  the  full-moon  awakening  on  the  night. 

Our  inmost  self  is  open  to  their  sway. 
As  spirit  hands  in  sealed  chambers  gleam 
They  dwell  in  us  and  have  their  life  alway. 

And  three  are  one :  the  man,  the  thing,  the  dream. 


36 


INTERDEPENDENCE  [Manche  Freilich  .  .  .].   Inter- 

Many  men  no  doubt  must  die  below-decks 
Where  the  heavy  oars  of  the  ship  are  plying; 
Others  dwell  above  beside  the  tiller 
Know  the  flight  of  birds  and  the  lore  of  star-lands. 

Many  with  weighted  limbs  must  lie  forever 
At  the  roots  of  the  labyrinthine  life-tree; 
Others  have  their  place  appointed 
With  the  sibyls,  the  queens  of  vision, 
Where  they  bide  as  in  seats  accustomed, 
Head  untroubled  and  hand  unburdened. 

Yet  from  yonder  lives  a  shadow  falleth 
On  the  happier  lives  of  the  others, 
And  the  light  unto  the  heavy 
As  to  air  and  earth  are  fettered : 

From  the  weariness  of  forgotten  peoples 
Vainly  would  I  liberate  mine  eyelids, 
Or  would  keep  my  startled  soul  at  distance 
From  the  silent  fall  of  far-off  planets. 

Many  fates  with  mine  are  interwoven, 
Subtly  mingled  flow  the  threads  of  being, 
And  my  share  in  it  is  more  than  merely 
One  life's  narrow  flame  or  thin-toned  lyre. 


37 


Higher  A  DREAM  OF  THE  HIGHER  MAGIC. 

Far  kinglier  than  a  chain  of  pearls  both  seem, 

And  bold  as  morning-misted  ocean  blue, 

Such — as  methought  then — was  the  mighty  dream. 

The    doors   of    glass   were   wide,    the   wind    went 

through. — 
In  a  pavilion  close  to  earth  I  slept, 
And  through  four  open  doors  the  breezes  flew. — 

And  first  a  troop  of  bridled  horses  swept 
Before  my  bed,  and  hounds  too  in  a  pack. 
But  with  a  sudden  gesture  the  Adept — 

That  Greatest,  First  Magician — drew  me  back 

Unto  a  wall,  between  the  which  and  me 

Swayed  his  proud  head,  the  long  hair  kingly  black. 

And  straight  no  wall  behind  him  seemed  to  be ; 
But  clifiFs  and  darkling  ocean  did  uprear 
Behind  his  hand,  and  meadows  fair  to  see. 

He  bent  him  down  and  drew  the  Deep  more  near. 
He  bent  him  lower,  and  along  the  ground 
His  fingers  played  as  though  it  water  were. 

But  the  clear  drops,  to  opals  large  and  round 
Changing  within  his  hands,  in  many  a  ring 
Were  spilled  again  to  earth  with  tuneful  sound. 

Then  to  the  nearest  cliff  with  easy  swing 
38 


O'  the  loins — as  in  sheer  pride — so  light  he  rose  Higher 

His  body  seemed  to  me  a  weightless  thing.  Magic 

But  in  his  eyes  was  ever  the  repose 

Of  sleeping,  and  yet  living,  jewel-spheres. 

He  sat,  and  spoke  a  master-word  to  those 

Old  days  we  think  long  buried  in  the  years, 
And  they  returned,  with  saddened  glory  great: 
Which  raised  his  heart  to  laughter  and  to  tears. 

Dreamingly  he  had  part  in  all  men's  fate, 

As  in  his  limbs  he  felt  his  vital  force. 

He  knew  no  far  or  near,  no  small  or  great. 

All  life  he  shared  in  its  tremendous  course : 

When  Earth  deep  down  grew  cold  with  secret  pang, 

Darkness  thronged  outward  from  its  central  source, 

Or  night  thrust  forth  the  tepid  airs  that  hang 
On  tree- tops — he  rejoiced  so  drunkenly 
That  like  a  lion  over  cliffs  he  sprang. 

Our  soul's  a  Cherub  and  of  lordly  birth — 
Dwells  not  in  us,  but  in  some  upper  star 
Fixes  his  throne  and  leaves  us  oft  in  dearth. 

Yet  deep  in  us  his  fiery  motions  are : 

— So  in  the  dream  I  seemed  to  understand — 

And  he  holds  converse  with  yon  fires  afar, 

And  lives  in  me  as  I  do  in  my  hand. 

39 


Little   THREE  LITTLE  SONGS. 
Songs 

Heard'st  not  thou  the  music's  tone 
As  around  thy  house  ft  crept  ? 
Night  was  heavy,  no  star  shone, 
Yet  'twas  I  that  there  alone, 
Singing  soft,  my  vigil  kept. 

What  my  tongue  could  tell,  I  spoke: 
''Thou  my  All,  my  dearest,  thou!" 
In  the  east  the  daylight  broke, 
Home  my  heavy  way  I  took, 
And  my  lips  are  silent  now. 

IL 

Heavy  was  the  sky  and  drear, 
Lonely  we  and  full  of  fear, 
Far  apart  were  pining. 
But  'tis  now  no  longer  so. 
Back  and  forth  the  breezes  flow. 
And  the  whole  wide  earth  is  shining 
Like  to  glass,  below. 

Stars  meanwhile  have  climbed  aloft. 

On  our  cheeks  they  sparkle  soft. 

Wise  with  sympathy. 

Yet  more  glory  heaven  revealeth, 

Till  through  us  deep  longing  stealeth. 

Spell-bound  in  an  ecstasy. 

Each  the  breath  of  other  feeleth. 

40 


in.  Little 

My  mistress  said:  "I  hold  thee  not,  Songs 

No  promise  hast  thou  sworn. 

The  sons  of  men  should  not  be  bound, 

To  faith  they  are  not  born. 

"Then  go  what  way  thou  wilt,  my  friend. 

Beholding  many  a  land, 

And  rest  thyself  in  many  a  bed, 

Take  many  a  woman's  hand. 

"If  bitter  wines  no  longer  please. 
Drink  thou  of  malmsey  then  ; 
And  if  my  mouth  seems  yet  more  sweet. 
Come  back  to  me  agen." 


41 


Figures  [gestalteri] 


THE  YOUNG  MAN  IN  THE  LANDSCAPE.  Man  in 

Gardeners  were  laying  out  their  plants  in  beds 
And  beggars,  beggars  wandered  everywhere 
With  crutches,  and  black  patches  on  their  eyes; 
But  some  with  harps  too  and  with   fresh-plucked 

flowers — 
Ah  the  strong  scent  of  the  weak  flowers  in  spring! 

The  naked  trees  left  all  things  in  full  view; 
There  was  the  river  and  the  market-town 
And  many  children  playing  by  the  ponds. 
'Twas  through  this  landscape  that  he  slowly  went, 
Feeling  its  power  and  knowing  in  himself 
That  he  had  part  in  the  world's  destiny. 

He  sought  those  children, — strangers  though  they 

were, — 
Ready  to  bring  the  treasures  of  new  life 
In  willing  service  to  a  foreign  threshold. 
He  reckoned  not  the  riches  of  his  soul, — 
The  ancient  paths,  and  all  the  memories 
Of  vanished  hands  and  spirits  now  transformed — 
As  of  more  value  than  an  idle  toy. 

The  perfume  of  the  flowers  told  him  but 
Of  unknown  Beauty, — and  he  softly  breathed 
The  April  air,  his  soul  unvexed  by  longing: 
'Twas  joy  enough  for  him  that  he  might  serve. 


45 


Ship's  THE  SHIP'S  COOK,  A  CAPTIVE, 
Cook    SINGS: 

Many  weary  weeks  divide  me 
From  my  folk, — unlucky  sinner! — 
Worse,  howe'er  my  foes  deride  me. 
Still  I  needs  must  cook  their  dinner. 

Lovely  purple-gleaming  fishes, 
Brought  me  living  from  the  water. 
Stare  with  failing  eyes  reproachful; 
Gentle  beasts,  too,  I  must  slaughter. 

Gentle  beasts,  too,  I  must  slaughter. 
Fruit  must  peel  or  cut  in  slices, 
And  for  those  who  hate  and  scorn  me 
Must  compound  the  fiery  spices. 

While  I  work  beneath  the  lantern, 
Mid  the  sweet,  sharp  odors  reeling, 
Thoughts  of  freedom  rouse  within  me 
Mighty  throbs  of  savage  feeling! 

Many  weary  weeks  divide  me 
From  my  folk, — unlucky  sinner! — 
Worse,  how^e'er  my  foes  deride  me. 
Still  I  needs  must  cook  their  dinner. 


46 


AN  OLD  MAN'S  LONGING  FOR  Longing 

SUMMER.  for  Summer 

If  'twere  July  at  last  instead  of  March, 

Nothing  would  stop  my  going  for  a  trip  ; 
On  horse-back,  in  a  carriage  or  by  rail 
I'd  get  me  to  a  fair  and  hilly  strip 

Of  country.    There'd  be  groves  of  mighty  trees, — 
Of  elms  and  maples,  sycamores  and  oaks: 
How  long  since  I  have  looked  on  such  as  these ! 

There  I'd  dismount,  or  bid  with  sharp  command 
The  driver:  "Stop,"  and  wander  aimless  on 
Into  the  very  heart  of  summer-land. 

I'd  rest  beneath  such  trees  as  in  their  dome 
Have  day  and  night  together;  not  that  each 
Should  so  be  blurred  and  spoiled  as  here  at  home, — 

Where  day  is  oft  as  desolate  as  night, 
And  night  as  lurid-lowering  as  the  day, — 
For  all  would  there  be  Glory,  Life  and  Light. 

From  shadow  into  sunset,  color-fraught, 

I'd  walk  enraptured,  and  the  breeze  that  came 

Would  never  whisper:  "All  of  this  is  naught." 

It  darkens;  from  the  houses  in  the  dell 

The  lights  gleam,  and  the  darkness  weighs  me  down, 

Yet  not  of  dying  doth  the  night-wind  tell. 

47 


Longing  I  stroll  across  the  churchyard  and  I  see 

for  Summer   The  flowers  waving  in  the  dim  last  light, 
No  other  Presence  there  oppresses  me. 

Beneath  the  dusky  hazel-branches  near 
A  brooklet  flows,  and  like  a  child,  I  hark. 
But  no  such  words  as:  "This  is  vain"  I  hear. 

Then  hastily  undressing,  in  I  spring. — 
I  lift  my  head,  and  lo!  the  moon  has  come 
While  in  the  current  I  was  buffeting. 

Emerging  half  from  out  the  ice-cold  stream, 
I  choose  a  pebble,  throw  it  landward  far. 
And  stand  there  in  the  moonlight's  pallid  beam. 

Across  the  moon-bathed  summer-land  doth  fall 
My  shadow;  is  it  this  that  noddeth  here 
So  sad  behind  the  pillow  on  the  wall? 

— So  sad  and  dreary,  he  that  in  the  dim 

First  light  of  dawn  stands  crouching,  while  he  knows 

That  Something  lies  in  wait  for  me  and  him  ? — 

— He  whom  the  rough  wind  never  leaves  at  rest 
This  March,  nor  lets  him  once  lie  down  at  night 
In  peace,  his  black  hands  folded  on  his  breast  ? 

Ah,  where's  July  and  where  the  summer-land? 


48 


LINES  TO  A  LITTLE  CHILD.  To  a  Little 

i^h  '1/1 

Thy  pink  little  feet  have  been  fashioned 

To  seek  for  the  Kingdom  of  Sunshine: 

The  doors  of  that  kingdom  are  open. 

The  air  these  thousands  of  years 

On  the  silent  tree-tops  is  hanging, 

The  inexhaustible  ocean 

Forever  and  ever  abides. 

By  the  rim  of  the  ancient  forest 

Wilt  thou  from  thy  wooden  bowl  give 

The  frog  to  drink  of  thy  milk? 

A  merry  meal  that !  yea,  almost 

The  stars  will  fall  into  the  bowl. 

By  the  rim  of  the  ancient  ocean 

Thou  soon  wilt  find  thee  a  playmate, 

The  dolphin,  friendly  and  good. 

He'll  spring  on  dry  land  at  thy  coming 

And,  if  he  be  often  away. 

The  ancient  winds  will  attend  thee 

To  quiet  the  rising  tears. 

And  still  in  the  Kingdom  of  Sunshine 

The  golden  heroic  old  days 

Forever  and  ever  abide. 

'Twas  the  sun  with  his  secret  might — 

He  fashioned  thy  little  pink  feet 

To  enter  his  timeless  dominions. 


49 


Emperor  THE  EMPEROR  OF  CHINA  SPEAKS: 

of  China   ,     ,  . .       .    i,    ,  • 

In  the  very  midst  or  all  things 

Here  dwell  I,  the  Son  of  Heaven. 

And  my  wives,  my  waving  forests, 

All  my  beasts  and  pools  unnumbered — 

These  the  inmost  wall  encloseth. 

Underneath,  my  ancestors 

Lie  entombed  with  their  weapons. 

With  their  crowns  upon  their  foreheads, 

All  and  each  as  well  beseemeth, — 

So  they  dwell  there  in  the  vaults. 

Far  into  the  world  below  me 

Rings  the  echo  of  my  footstep. 

Silent  from  the  banks  of  greensward — 

Verdant  pillows  for  my  feet — 

Glide  the  well-apportioned  rivers 

Eastward,  westward,  south-  and  northward, 

To  refresh  the  thirsty  garden — 

Water  my  wide  realm,  the  Earth. 

First  my  beasts'  dark  eyes  they  mirror. 

And  reflect  the  birds'  bright  pinions; 

Then  outside^  the  painted  cities. 

Gloomy  walls  and  tangled  forests, 

Faces  too  of  many  peoples. 

These  my  nobles,  dwelling  round  me 

Like  the  stars, — they  all  are  known  by 

Names  which  I  myself  have  given. 

Names  according  to  the  hour 

When  each  one  drew  near  to  me; 

50 


And  their  wives  I  also  gave  them,  Emperor 

So  that  for  their  troops  of  children, —  of  China 

All  the  noblest  of  the  earth, — 

I  created  form  and  feature, 

As  a  gardener  for  his  flowers. 

But  between  the  walls  beyond  them 

Peoples  dwell  that  are  my  soldiers. 

Peoples  too  that  are  my  farmers. 

Then  new  walls,  and  after  these 

Yon  subdued  and  vassal  peoples. 

Other  folk  of  blood  more  sluggish 

To  the  ocean,  the  last  rampart 

That  surrounds  my  realm  and  me. 


51 


Grandmother  GRANDMOTHER  AND  GRANDSON. 
and 


Grandson 


"Far  thy  mind,  thy  feet  alone 
Enter  at  my  door." 
Say,  how  know'st  thou  that  so  soon  ? 
"Child,  I  guess  at  more." 

What?    "How  sweetly  she  just  now 
Shocked  thy  sweet  repose." — 
Strange!  how  like  herself  wert  thou, 
Nodding,  half  a-doze. 

"Once."  .   .    .  Nay,  her  I  now,  in  truth, 
See  in  happy  trance. 
"Child,  thou  breathest  now  my  youth 
Back  with  word  and  glance. 

"Maidenhood  with  glowing  tide 
Wells  in  me  anew. 
Till  my  spirit  opens  wide." 
Yes,  I  feel  it,  too. 

I'm  by  thee,  and  yet  away 
On  some  distant  star: 
In  a  waking  trance  I  sway 
Now  from  near  to  far. 

"When  unto  thy  grandfather 
All  my  life  I  gave, 
Thoughts  did  not  so  wildly  whir 
As  beside  my  grave." 

52 


Grave!  why  speakest  thou  of  that?  Grandmother 

Far  the  grave  from  thee!  and 

With  thy  grandson  dost  thou  chat,  Grandson 
Sitting  peacefully. 

Clear  thine  eyes  and  full  of  light, 
Fresh  thy  cheek's  red  hue. 
"Saw'st  thou  not  where,  black  as  night, 
Something  past  us  flew?" 

Something  'tis  that  like  a  dream 
Holds  my  loving  breast. 
Strangely  too  this  room  doth  seem 
Sultry  and  oppressed. 

"Feel'st  thou  ? — Yea,  'tis  bright  above, 
Slower  throbs  my  heart. — 
When  thou  kissest  thy  true  love, 
From  the  world  apart, — 

"Feel  it  still,  and  think  the  while. 
But  without  dismay : 
With  a  young,  young  maiden's  smile 
Dying  here  I  lay." 


53 


Society   SOCIETY. 

Singer 

Listeners,  if  ye  be  but  young, 
Mighty  is  the  power  of  song; 
It  can  make  you  sad  or  gay. 
Swift  it  bears  the  soul  away. 

Stranger 

Peoples  live  both  far  and  near  ; 
What  I  show,  ye  gladly  hear — 
Not  the  heart  of  many  lands. 
But,  as  'twere,  the  play  of  hands. 

Young  Man 

Much  that  wakens  joy  in  me 

Through  the  fluttering  scene  is  weaved, 

But  so  phantom-shadowy: 

Happy — I'm  as  one  deceived. 

Poet 

What  a  soft  reflected  tone 

Glimmers  here  from  guest  to  guest — 

Each  one,  feeling  as  alone. 

Feels  his  being  in  the  rest. 

Painter 

As  between  the  candles  bright 
So  between  the  faces  white 
See  the  fluttering  laughter  play ! 

54 


Stranger  Society 

Song  can  make  one  sad  or  gay. 

Poet 

Great  the  power  of  song  must  be — 

Peoples  live  both  far  and  near. 

Young  Man 

What  they  say  I  gladly  hear, 

Though  'tis  phantom-shadowy. 


55 


OF-.MOU%J^J^g 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  BOOK  ''Anator 

"ANATOL." 

Trellised  gateways,  box-wood  hedges, 

Coats  of  arms  with  gilding  faded, 

Sphinxes  glimmering  through  the  thicket  .    .   . 

Now  the  grinding  doors  are  opened. — 
With  cascades  that  no  more  trickle, 
Tritons  weary  of  their  spouting, 
All  rococo,  dusty,  charming, — 
'Tis  Vienna  in  the  time  of 
Canaletto,  Seventeen-and-Sixty.  .   .   . 

Green  and  brown  the  quiet  pools  are, 
Set  in  smooth  white  rims  of  marble. 
And  within  these  nixie-mirrors 
Play  the  fishes,  gold  and  silver.  .   .    . 
On  the  turf  so  smoothly  shaven 
Lie  the  slender,  even  shadows 
Of  the  graceful  oleanders; 
Branches  arch  to  form  a  dome  here. 
Branches  bending  form  a  niche  there 
For  the  stiffly-carven  couples. 
Loving  heroines  and  heroes.  .   .   . 
Triple  dolphins  pour  their  murmuring 
Floods  into  a  conch-shell  basin  .   .   . 
Scent-exhaling  chestnut  blossoms 
Whir  and  glimmer,  downward  gliding. 
And  are  drowned  within  the  basin.  .   .   . 

From  behind  a  box-wood  rampart 
Fiddles,  clarinets  are  sounding  .   .   . 

59 


^^Anatol^^   And  the  notes  appear  to  gush  from 
Yonder  graceful  cupid-figures 
As  they  sit  there  on  the  terrace, 
Fiddling,  twining  flower-garlands. 
They  themselves  enwreathed  in  flowers 
Which  out-stream  from  marble  vases: 
Wall-flowers,  jessamine  and  lilacs  .   .   . 

On  the  terrace  too  between  them 
Sit  the  fine  coquettish  ladies. 
And  the  purple  Monsignori  .   .   . 
In  the  grass,  on  silken  cushions 
At  their  feet,  and  on  the  stairway 
Sit  the  gallants  and  abbati  .   .   . 
Others  of  them  lift  more  ladies 
From  the  depths  of  perfumed  litters.  .   .   . 

Lights  are  breaking  through  the  branches, 
Flickering  on  the  golden  tresses. 
Shining  on  the  gay-hued  cushions, 
Gliding  over  grass  and  pebbles, 
Gliding  o'er  the  scaffold  structure 
We  in  haste  have  thrown  together. 
Vines  that  clamber  upward  on  it 
Cover  all  the  fresh-hewn  timber, 
And  between  them,  rich  in  color. 
Flutter  tapestries  and  carpets, 
Shepherd-scenes  right  boldly  woven 
From  Watteau's  delicious  patterns  .   .   . 
With  an  arbor  for  our  stage  then, 
Summer  sun  instead  of  foot-lights, 
We  are  playing  here  at  acting, 
60 


Playing  plays  ourselves  have  written,  **AnatoV^ 

Immature  and  sad  and  tender, 

Comedies  of  our  soul's  passion, 

Ebb  and  flood  of  our  emotions, 

Ugly  facts  in  pretty  symbols, 

Well-turned  phrases,  glowing  pictures, 

Hidden  feeling  half  suggested. 

Episodes  of  tragic  meaning  .   .    . 

Some,  not  all,  are  listening  to  them. 

Some  are  eating  ices  .    .    .  many 

Too  are  whispering  choice  gallantries  .   .    . 

In  the  tepid  breeze  are  cradled 
Whitely  exquisite  carnations, 
Like  white  moths  that  swarm  and  flutter, 
And  a  lap-dog  of  Bologna 
Barks  astonished  at  a  peacock. 


61 


Similar  FOR  A  SIMILAR  BOOK. 

Book  A  J  ,1       T-L  •  • 

Attend,  attend !     1  he  present  time  is  strange, 
And  strange  the  children  of  the  time:  Ourselves. 
He  that's  too  much  enamored  of  the  sweet 
Endures  us  not,  for  bitter  is  our  way, 
And  odd  the  entertainment  we  afford. 
"Set  up  a  little  stage  here  in  the  room. 
The  daughter  of  the  house  would  give  a  play!" 
Think  you  she'll  trip  out  as  a  little  Muse 
With  loose  locks  and  bare  arms,  in  which  will  rest 
A  not-too-heavy  tinsel-gilded  lyre? 
Or  as  a  shepherdess,  with  a  white  lamb 
On  a  blue  silken  cord,  about  her  lips 
A  smile  as  sweet-insipid  as  the  rhymes 
In  pastoral  plays?    Then  up!  and  get  you  gone! 
Depart,  I  beg  you,  if  you  look  for  such ! 
You'll  not  endure  us ;  we  are  otherwise. 
For  we  have  made  a  play  from  out  the  life 
We  live,  and  mingled  with  our  comedy 
Our  truth  keeps  ever  gliding  in  and  out 
As  with  a  cunning  juggler's  hollow  cups — 
The  more  you  look  at  them,  the  more  deceived! 
We  cut  off  little  shreds  of  our  own  selves 
To  dress  the  puppets.    How  the  inner  meanings — 
(On  which,  it  may  be,  smiles  and  tears  are  hung 
Like  dew-drops  on  a  bush  with  shaggy  leaves) 
Must  shudder,  when  they  recognize  themselves 
Enwoven  through  this  play  of  ours,  half  painted, 
And  half  still  like  themselves,  but  so  estranged 
62 


From  the  great  guilelessness  that  once  they  had !       Similar 
Was  ever  play  so  tangled,  so  confusing?  Book 

It  steals  us  from  ourselves  and  is  not  lovely 
As  dancing  is  or  singing  on  the  water, 
Yet  'tis  the  richest  in  seductive  art 
Of  all  the  dramas  that  we  children  know, 
We  children  of  this  most  unusual  time. 

Why  are  you  waiting?    That's  the  way  we  are. 

But  if  you'd  really  hear  what  things  ensue, 

Well,  stay.    We  shall  not  be  disturbed  at  you. 


63 


Mttterwurzer  IN  MEMORY  OF  THE  ACTOR, 
MITTERWURZER. 

He  went  out  like  a  candle  all  at  once. 
We  wore  a  pallor  on  our  faces  like 
The  hue  reflected  from  a  lightning-flash. 

He  fell ;  and  with  him  all  the  puppets  fell, 
Into  whose  veins  this  man  had  poured  the  blood 
Of  his  own  being;  silently  they  died, 
And  where  he  lay,  a  heap  of  corpses  lay, 
Strewn  in  disorder:  here  a  toper's  knee 
Pressing  a  king's  eye,  yonder  Don  Philippe 
With  Caliban  as  nightmare  on  his  neck. 
Dead  every  one. 

At  last  we  knew  him  who  was  lost  to  us: 
The  conjurer,  the  mighty,  mighty  juggler! 
And  from  our  houses  then  we  sallied  forth 
And  all  began  to  speak  of  who  he  was. 
Ah,  but  who  was  he,  and  who  was  he  not  ? 

From  one  mask  he  would  creep  into  another. 

Spring  from  the  father's  body  to  the  son's, 

And,  like  to  garments,  change  the  forms  he  wore. 

With  swords,  which  he  could  swing  about  so  fast 

That  no  one  saw  the  glitter  of  their  blades. 

He  cut  himself  in  pieces:  This  one  was 

Perhaps  lago,  and  the  other  half 

Would  take  the  part  of  some  sweet  fool  or  dreamer. 

For  his  whole  body  was  a  magic  veil, 

64 


Within  the  folds  of  which  were  dwelling  all  things:  Mitterwitrzer 

He  could  fetch  beasts  from  out  that  self  of  his: 

A  lion,  a  sheep,  a  devil  of  stupidness. 

And  one  of  horror,  this  and  yonder  man, 

And  you  and  me.    A  sort  of  inward  fate 

Set  his  whole  body  glowing  through  and  through, 

Like  coals  it  glowed,  and  he  dwelt  in  the  midst 

And  looked  on  us,  who  only  live  in  houses, 

With  the  impenetrable  alien  look 

Of  the  salamander,  he  that  lives  in  fire. 

He  was  a  savage  king.    About  his  hips  ^ 

He  carried  like  a  string  of  colored  shells 

The  truth  and  lies  of  all  us  other  folk. 

In  those  deep  eyes  of  his  were  glassed  our  dreams, 

That  flew  across,  as  flocks  of  shy  wild  birds 

Are  imaged  in  the  mirror  of  a  lake. 

Here  he  would  come,  even  to  this  very  spot 

Where  I  now  stand,  and  as  in  Triton's  horn 

The  clamor  of  the  ocean  is  contained, 

So  were  in  him  the  voices  of  all  life : 

He  became  tall.    The  whole  wood  now  he  was, 

He  was  the  country  that  the  roads  ran  through. 

With  eyes  like  children's  we  would  sit  and  gaze 

In  wonder  up  at  him,  as  from  the  slope 

Of  a  gigantic  mountain ;  in  his  mouth 

There  was  a  gulf,  wherein  the  ocean  surged. 

For  there  was  in  him  something  that  would  open 
Many  a  door  and  fly  through  many  a  room : 

65 


NlitterwUTzer   The  force  of  Life  was  in  him,  this  it  was. 

And  over  him  the  force  of  Death  prevailed ! 
For  Death  blew  out  the  eyes  whose  inmost  core 
Was  covered  with  mysterious  hieroglyphs, 
It  strangled  in  the  throat  a  thousand  voices, 
And  killed  the  body  which  through  every  limb 
Was  laden  down  with  life  as  yet  unborn. 

'Twas  here  he  stood.     When  will  his  like  stand 

here  ? — 
A  spirit  peopling  all  the  labyrinth 
Of  the  human  breast  with  forms  it  comprehends, 
And  opening  it  anew  to  fearsome  joys. 
Those  which  he  gave  we  can  no  longer  keep, 
We  hear  his  name  and  stare  with  vague  affright 
Down  the  abyss  that  swallowed  them  from  sight. 


66 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  ACTOR,  Miiller 

HERMANN  MULLER. 

This  house  and  we  are  servants  to  an  art 

Which  turns  each  grief  to  some  refreshing  draught, 

And  gives  even  Death  a  relish. 

And  he  whom  we  would  call  before  our  souls. 

He  was  so  strong!  his  body  so  endowed 

With  power  of  change  that,  as  it  seemed,  no  net 

Was  able  to  contain  him!    What  a  being! 

He  made  himself  transparent,  let  the  whites 

Of  his  eye  betray  the  utmost  secrecies 

That  slumbered  there  within  him,  and  he  breathed 

The  spirits  of  imaginary  creatures 

Into  himself  like  smoke  and  sent  them  through 

His  pores  again  into  the  light  of  day. 

He  would  transform  himself,  and  out  would  well 

Strange  beings,  hardly  human,  but  so  living — 

The  eye  said  yes  to  them,  although  before 

It  ne'er  had  seen  the  like :  one  little  twinkle. 

One   fetch   of  the  breath   would   prove   that   such 

things  were, 
And  still  might  steam  from  out  our  mother  earth. 
And  men!    Ah,  close  your  eye-lids  and  think  back! 
Now  splendid  bodies,  where  one  last  least  spark 
Of  soul  gleams  but  in  the  corner  of  an  eye, 
Now  souls  that  build  as  body  round  themselves. 
Only  to  serve  them,  a  transparent  shrine: 
Commonplace  men,  and  gloomy  men,  and  kings, 

67 


Muller   Men  that  could  make  you  laugh,  could  make  you 
shudder — 
He  would  transform  himself,  and  there  they  stood. 

But  when  the  play  was  quenched  and  when  the 

curtain 
Silently  like  a  painted  eye-lid  fell 
Across  the  cavern  of  dead  wizardry. 
And  he  himself  went  forth,  a  stage  was  then 
Opened  before  him  in  such  wise  it  seemed 
A  staring,  ever  sleepless  eye,  a  stage 
On  which  no  pitying  curtain  ever  sinks : 
The  terror-striking  stage,  Reality. 
There  all  his  arts  of  transformation  fell 
Away  from  him,  and  his  poor  spirit  went 
Unveiled  and  could  but  see  through  childish  eyes. 
There  he,  unknowing  how  it  came  about. 
Was  caught  in  an  inexorable  play; 
Each  step  entangled  worse  than  that  before. 
And  each  inanimate  thing  was  cruel  toward  him : 
The  countenance  of  night  conspired  as  well. 
The  wind  conspired,  the  gentle  wind  of  spring, 
And  all  against  him !     Not  for  common  souls, 
For  delicate  souls  it  is  that  darkling  Fate 
Sets  nooses  of  this  sort.    Then  came  a  day: 
He  raised  himself,  and  his  tormented  eye 
Was  flooded  with  foreboding  and  with  dream. 
And  with  firm  grasp,  like  to  a  heavy  cloak 
He  threw  life  off  from  him  and  did  not  heed 
68 


More  than  the  dust  upon  his  mantle's  hem  Miiller 

The  forms  that  now  were  crumbled  into  naught. 

Think  only  thus  of  him.    Let  reverent  music 
Call  him  before  you,  dimly  guess  his  fate, 
And  let  me  cease,  for  I  have  reached  the  bounds 
Where  awe  shatters  the  word  within  my  mouth. 


69 


Bocklin  FOR  A   COMMEMORATION   ON   THE 
DEATH  OF  ARNOLD  BOCKLIN. 

[Durinff  the  last  bars  of  the  music  the  speaker  of  the 
prologue  advances,  his  torch-bearers  following.  The 
speaker  is  a  youth  dressed  in  the  Venetian  style,  all 
in  black,  as  a  mourner.^ 

Music,  be  silent!    Now  the  scene  is  mine, 

And  now  will  I  lament,  as  well  I  should ! 

In  these  my  years  the  sap  of  youth  runs  strong 

Within,  and  he  whose  statue  looks  on  me 

Was  to  my  spirit  a  beloved  friend. 

And  of  such  favor  was  I  sore  in  need, 

For  gloom  oppresses  much  in  these  my  years; 

And  as  the  swan,  a  happy  swimming  creature, 

Kisses  its  nourishment  from  out  the  white 

And  dripping  hands  of  naiads,  even  so 

I  bent  me  in  dark  hours  above  his  hands 

To  take  the  food  my  soul  would  have:  deep  dream. 

Shall  I  adorn  thy  statue  but  with  flowers? 

Thou  did'st  adorn  the  image  of  the  world 

For  me,  and  did'st  enhance  with  such  a  glow 

The  loveliness  of  every  blossoming  spray, 

I  threw  myself  all  drunken  on  the  earth, 

I  cried  exultant,  feeling  how  for  me 

Shining-limbed  Nature  let  her  robe  sink  down! 

Harken  to  me,  my  friend !     I  will  not  bid 

Heralds  go  out  and  trumpet  forth  thy  name 

To  the  four  winds,  as  though  a  king  were  dead : 

70 


A  king  leaves  to  his  heir  his  royal  crown,  Bocklin 

And  to  a  tomb  the  echo  of  his  name, 

But  thou  wert  a  magician  of  such  might 

That,  though  thy  visible  self  is  gone,  there  lurks 

An  oh  I  know  not  what  of  thee  here  and  there, — 

Which,  dark  of  eye,  with  strange  still-living  power 

Lifts  itself  to  the  bank  from  out  the  flood 

Of  night — or  stretches  out  a  hairy  ear 

Listening  behind  the  ivy. 

So  I'll  not 
Believe  that  I  am  anywhere  alone, 
Where  there  are  trees  or  flowers,  where  even  are 
But  silence-keeping  rocks  and  tiny  clouds 
Beneath  the  heavens:  how  easily  a  Something, 
A  more  transparent  shape  than  Ariel  was. 
Might  flit  away  behind  me!     For  I  know 
That  there  was  knit  a  secret  bond  'twixt  thee 
And  many  a  creature,  yea,  the  field  in  spring — 
Behold !  it  laughed  on  thee  as  might  a  woman 
On  him  to  whom  by  night  she  gave  herself. 

I  purposed  to  lament  you,  and  my  mouth 
Swells  with  a  flood  of  glad  and  drunken  speech : 
Thus  it  befits  I  stand  no  longer  here. 
I'll  strike  my  thyrsus  on  the  ground  three  times 
And  fill  this  tent-like  space  with  forms  of  dream. 
These  will  I  so  o'erburden  with  the  weight 
Of  sadness,  they  shall  stagger  as  they  go, 
At  which  whoever  sees  must  weep  and  feel 
With  how  great  sorrow  is  enmingled  all 

71 


B'dckUn   That  we  may  do. 

Let  now  a  play  reveal 
The  mirror  of  yon  dark  and  anxious  hour, 
And  do  ye  learn  from  shadowy  lips  what  prize 
Is  the  great  master's  melancholy  dower! 


72 


'D%zA<J^<^nC  II^TJ^ 


IDYLL  Idyll 

AFTER  AN  OLD  VASE  PAINTING :  A  CENTAUR  ON  THE 
BANK  OF  A  RIVER   CARRYING  A  WOUNDED  WOMAN. 

[The  scene  is  in  the  style  of  a  painting  by  Bocklin. 
An  open  village  smithy.  Behind  the  house  in  the 
background,  a  stream.  The  smith  is  at  his  work,  his 
wife  leans  idly  in  the  doorway  which  leads  from  the 
smithy  into  the  house.  On  the  floor  a  little  fair- 
haired  child  is  playing  with  a  tame  crab.  In  a  niche 
is  a  skin  of  wine,  some  fresh  figs,  and  slices  of 
melon.~\ 

THE  SMITH 

Where  do  your  musing  thoughts  betake  themselves, 

While  silently,  with  hostile  air  almost 

And  lightly  twitching  lips,  you  watch  my  toil  ? 

THE  WOMAN 

I  often  sat  in  a  garden,  blossom-white, 

Turning  my  gaze  upon  my  father's  work, 

The  comely  potter's  craft,  as  on  the  disk. 

That,  humming,  whirled,  a  noble  form  would  rise 

In  quiet  growth  like  to  a  tender  flower. 

With  the  cool  glint  of  ivory.    Then  to  this 

He  set  a  handle  with  acanthus  leaves. 

An  olive-  or  acanthus-garland  too, 

Dark-red,  went  round  to  ornament  the  rim. 

The  body  he  enlivened  with  a  row 

75 


Idyll   O'  the  Hours,  the  Hovering  Life-outpouring  Ones. 
He  wrought  the  wondrous  form  of  Phaedra,  faint 
With  longing,  stretched  upon  her  royal  couch; 
And  Eros  fluttering  above  her  there, 
Eros  that  filled  her  limbs  with  sweetest  pain. 
He  loved  to  decorate  a  mighty  jug 
With  bacchic  revelry,  where  purple  must 
Would  spurt  beneath  the  maenad's  naked  foot, 
And  all  the  air  was  filled  with  tossing  hair 
And  waving  of  the  thyrsus,  held  aloft. 
On  mortuary  urns  Persephone 
Was  pictured,  with  her  reddened  soulless  eyes. 
And  poppies,  flowers  of  forgetfulness, 
Twined  in  her  sacred  tresses,  while  she  trod 
The  life-oblivious  fields  of  asphodel. 
I'd  never  end,  were  I  to  tell  of  all 
The  godlike  beings,  in  whose  lovely  life, 
— Living  a  second  time  what  there  I  saw, — 
In  all  their  fear  and  hatred  and  desire 
And  strange  adventures  of  whatever  sort — 
I  also  had  my  share,  though  but  a  child. 
The  breath  of  their  emotions,  half  divined. 
Touched  on  the  deepest  harp-strings  of  my  soul, 
So  that  at  times  methought  that  I  in  sleep 
Had  wandered  through  the  dark-hid  mysteries 
Of  Joy  and  Grief  with  open,  conscious  eye. 
Hence,  though  I'm  now  returned  to  sunlight,  still 
My  thoughts  are  mindful  of  that  other  life. 
Making  of  me  a  stranger,  one  shut  out 
Here  in  the  world  of  healthful  living  air. 
76 


THE  SMITH  Idyll 

Overmuch  idleness  confused,  methinks, 
The  sense  of  being  in  the  fanciful 
And  dream-delighted  child.     There  lacked  besides 
The  high  respect  which  wisely  separates 
Things  fit  for  gods  alone  from  those  which  gods 
Allow  to  mortals.    This  did  Semele, 
Her  mad  wish  granted,  feel  as  she  expired. 
Learn  to  revere  your  husband's  handicraft, — 
Born  of  the  entrails  of  all-mothering  Earth — 
Which,  having  first  subdued  the  hundred-armed 
Unfettered  flame,  does  deft  and  mighty  work. 

THE  WOMAN 

To  watch  the  flame,  that  lure  is  ever  new, — 
The  changeful,  with  its  hot  bewildering  breath. 

THE  SMITH 

Rather  rejoice  to  gaze  upon  the  work! 

The  weapons,  look !  the  sacred  plough's  hard  blade, 

This  axe  that  shapes  the  tree  trunks  for  our  house. 

So  does  the  smith  make  that  which  makes  all  else. 

Where  pungent  upturned  furrows  drink  the  seeds 

And  yellow  wheat  against  the  sickle  flows, 

Where  through  still  branches  toward  the  startled 

deer 
The  arrow  whirs  and  strikes  into  its  neck. 
Where  the  hard  horse-hoofs,  thudding,  spurn  the 

dust 

77 


Idyll   And  rapid  wheels  roll  between  town  and  town, 
And  where  with  ringing  blade  the  strife  of  men 
Reveals  the  manhood  that  should  live  in  song: 
Thus  I  work  on  and  hold  the  world  thus  bound 
With  tokens  of  my  work,  because  'tis  good. 
[Pause.] 

THE  WOMAN 

I  see  a  centaur  coming,  young  he  is, 

A  beauteous  god,  methinks,  though  half  a  beast; 

He  leaves  the  wood  and  trots  along  the  bank. 

THE  CENTAUR 

[He  has  in  his  hand  a  spear,  which  he  holds  out 

toward  the  smith.] 
May  my  dull  weapon  here  find  remedy 
And  a  new  point  to  suit  its  weight?     Reply! 

THE  SMITH 

I've  seen  your  like  before,  but  never  you. 

THE  CENTAUR 

For  the  first  time  now  has  my  course  been  lured 
Into  your  village  by  the  need  you  know  of. 

THE  SMITH 

'Twill  soon  be  satisfied.     Do  you,  meanwhile, 
If  you  would  win  this  woman's  gratitude, 
78 


Tell  of  the  wonders  you'll  have  seen,  whereof  Idyll 

No  tidings  come  here,  if  no  wanderer  comes. 

THE  WOMAN 

I'll  bring  you  first  the  wine-skin :  it  is  filled 
With  cool  sharp  cider ;  nothing  else  have  we. 
[She  has  poured  the  wine  from  the  skin  into  an 
earthen  drinking-cup,  which  he  slowly  empties.^ 
Next  time  you'll  drink — right  far  from  here  per- 
chance— 
A  warmer  liquor  from  a  better  cup 
Filled  by  a  woman  fairer  than  am  I. 

THE  CENTAUR 

I  went  not  on  the  common  streets,  I  shunned 
The  thronging  bustle  of  the  landing-place, 
Where  one  may  glean  gay  news  from  sailor-folk. 
The  barren  heath  I  chose  as  path  by  day, 
Rousing  flamingoes  only  or  black  bulls; 
And  stamped  the  heather  Into  scent  by  night, 
Roaming  beneath  the  hyacinthlne  dusk. 
Once  as  I  wandered  by  a  sacred  grove, 
Suddenly  in  some  whim  of  wilful  joy. 
Out  of  a  troop  of  naiads  one  came  forth 
And  joined  me  for  a  space,  whom  then  I  lost 
Again  to  a  young  satyr  by  the  road 
Blowing  his  syrlnx-plpes  enticingly. 

THE  WOMAN 

Unspeakably  sweet  this  freedom  seems  to  me. 

79 


Idyll   THE  SMITH 

The  wood-born  creatures  know  not  shame  or  faith, 
Which  learn  to  long  for  and  to  guard  the  house. 

THE  WOMAN 

Say,  did  you  chance  to  hear  the  flute  of  Pan? 

THE  CENTAUR 

In  a  deep  valley  it  was  granted  me. 

Borne  from  the  cliff's  edge  on  the  sultry  wind 

Of  evening,  eerie  notes  came  floating  down, 

Deeply  disturbing  as  the  stress  combined 

Of  all  deep  things  that  tremble  through  the  soul ; 

It  was  as  if  my  self  was  whirled  away 

Through  myriad-shifting  moods  of  drunkenness. 

THE  SMITH 

Forbidden  things  leave  rather  undescribed ! 

THE  WOMAN 

Nay,  let  him ! — What  more  sweetly  stirs  the  soul  ? 

THE  SMITH 

'Tis  life  matures  the  pulsing  of  the  heart, 
As  ripened  fruit  will  gladly  leave  the  tw'ig. 
And  to  no  other  shuddering  are  we  born 
Than  fate  breathes  o'er  the  surface  of  our  life. 
80 


THE  CENTAUR  Idyll 

Would  you  know  nothing  of  the  wondrous  art 

Which  the  gods  use,  O  man  beneath  your  race, 

Of  mounting  in  the  storm  to  other  times; 

As  dolphin  splashing  in  the  primal  wet, 

Or  circling  through  the  air  with  eagle-joy? 

Friend,  you  know  little  of  the  world,  methinks. 

THE  SMITH 

I  know  the  whole,  who  know  my  proper  sphere, 
I  shun  the  measureless,  desiring  not 
To  cup  the  fleeting  wave  with  hollow  hand. 
Know  first  the  brook  that  rocked  your  cradle ;  know 
Yon  tree,  with  fruit  the  sun  makes  ripe  for  you, 
Wlience  tepid  perfume-laden  shadows  pour; 
The  cool  green  grass, — you  trod  it  as  a  child. 
Your  sire  walked  there,  with  gently  chilling  blood ; 
Your  sweetheart  too,  beneath  whose  step  welled  up 
The  scented  violets,  nestling  at  her  feet. 
Know  too  the  house  where  you  shall  live  and  die ; 
Then  reverently  know  yourself,  your  work. 
In  this  there  will  be  more  than  you  can  grasp. — 
I'll  not  detain  the  wanderer,  except 
For  a  last  polishing.    The  file's  not  here ; 
I'll  find  it,  so  that  all  may  be  complete. 
\^He  goes  into  the  house.^ 

THE  WOMAN 

Your  way  will  never  lead  you  here  again ; 
And,  trampling  through  the  hyacinthine  night, 

81 


Idyll   Enraptured,  you  will  soon,  I  fear,  forget 
Me,  who,  I  fear,  will  not  forget  so  soon. 

THE  CENTAUR 

You're  wrong.     I  were  accurst  in  leaving  you. 

As  though  behind  me  rumbling  gates  should  close 

Upon  the  perfumed  garden  of  all  love. 

But  'tis  my  meaning  you  should  come  with  me ; 

I'd  take  along  such  rapture  as  today's, — 

Joy  that  Queen  Aphrodite  ne'er  poured  out, 

Who  quickens  all  the  ocean  and  the  plain. 

THE  WOMAN 

How  could  I  leave  my  husband,  house  and  child? 

THE  CENTAUR 

How  should  you  grieve  for  what  you'll  soon  forget? 

THE  WOMAN 

He's  coming  back ;  the  dream  is  soon  dissolved ! 

THE  CENTAUR 

Never,  while  joy  and  way  are  still  to  choose. 
Twine  your  firm  fingers  in  my  mane  and  cling, 
Resting  upon  my  back,  to  neck  and  arms! 

[She  swings  herself  up  on  his  back,  and  he  dashes 
down  to  the  river  with  shrill  cries,  the  child  becomes 
frightened  and  breaks  into  pitiful  weeping.  The 
82 


smith  steps  out  of  the  house.  Just  then  the  centaur  Idyll 
plunges  into  the  rushing  waters  of  the  stream.  His 
bronze  breast  and  the  figure  of  the  woman  stand  out 
sharply  against  the  surface  which  is  gilded  by  the 
sunset.  The  smith  sees  them;  with  the  spear  of  the 
centaur  in  his  hand  he  runs  down  to  the  bank  and, 
bending  far  forward,  casts  the  spear.  It  strikes  and 
remains  for  a  moment  fixed  with  quivering  shaft  in 
the  back  of  the  woman,  till  with  a  piercing  cry  she 
looses  the  mane  of  the  centaur  and  with  arms  out- 
spread falls  backward  into  the  water.  The  centaur 
catches  her,  dying,  in  his  arms  and,  lifting  her  on 
high,  bears  her  down  the  river  while  he  swims 
toward  the  opposite  bank.] 


83 


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